Basketball Tuesdays
by elgatoneun
Summary: Long time no update. Chapter 8 up. Whitney/Clark. Slash. Whitney and Clark get a little closer.
1. Clark POV

Title:  Basketball Tuesday (1/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  PG-13 for language, a little slash

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney wants to play basketball with Clark, Clark POV

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Leech

Feedback:  Would be appreciated

Notes:  This is my first fic.  I read some great Clark/Whitney but I wanted more.  So I am putting my own out.  Thanks to Maddie and Tara, my wonderful betas, for pointing out some of my mistakes and helping me fix them.  Any mistakes still apparent can be attributed to the writer's own stubbornness.

Library?  Nope.  Locker?  No, he had taken it out of his locker.  Why didn't he also have super memory?  Where did he put his stupid geometry book?  Clark was trying to retrace his steps; he had two pages of math homework to do tonight and that quiz to study for on Friday.  Let's see, he'd had the book at lunch, he and Pete had been waiting in the gym, because Chloe had fourth period P.E.  They had taken a basketball out and were shooting some hoops until  - aha, he had left his book on the second row bleachers.  

Clark made his way down the hallway to the gym.  He went through the swinging doors and looked around for his book.  The bleachers had been folded back against the wall already, his book was nowhere in sight - at least in plain sight.  Clark focused his eyes and scanned the gym.  All he saw were some balls and various bits of trash stuck along the corner of the equipment cage.  

Damn it.  Where was that book?  

Hmmm, I could ask Lana if I can borrow her book and maybe get a little help.  Lana was really good at math and English and history and she had this way of sort of looking at you through her eyelashes that made you want to ... geez, Clark, get a hold of yourself.  A mental picture popped into his brain.  No, not that way you perv!  Clark felt heat creeping up his neck.  I can't believe I am such a loser that I actually embarrass myself when I think of sex.  And Lana.  Sex and Lana.  Sex and Lana.  Sex and …

"Hey, Kent!" an unwelcome but familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.  He looked up and confirmed the presence of tall, blond, athletic Whitney "I am the master of all I survey, what the hell are you doing in my kingdom?" Fordman.  

"Hi, Whitney," he replied woodenly.  See, Clark, God knows and He's watching you.  Thou shall not covet blah blah blah, and just as a reminder here's a smack upside your head, the boyfriend himself.  Lana is Whitney's girl.  Not yours, his … oh wait, he's speaking to you.  Resentment flashed, okay Whitney, you've got the popularity, you've got the girl, you want my attention now too?

"So, uh, Brent, Pete and I waited for you on Tuesday after school." 

"What?"  

"Remember, basketball – on Tuesdays?  We thought you might want to play again, so we waited," Whitney shot him this weird look, kind of a grimace.  Sort of friendly, but uncomfortable and chagrinned, like he just farted in church and was hoping people wouldn't realize the source.      

"Oh yeah, well um, I was busy, you know … um helping Chloe with the Torch, uh yeah, she needs a lot of help, that Chloe." 

Whitney smirked.  

"Yeah, I'll just bet she does," Whitney let that comment trail off suggestively.  Clark's eyes widened a bit and was just about to refute that statement when he realized Whitney was just joking around.  

"So, will Chloe need help next Tuesday, too?   You and Pete could meet us outside next week; weather's getting a little nicer."

"Yeah, I gotta help her, I don't think I'll be able to play anymore." Clark didn't realize that he let out a wistful little sigh.  It had been fun and exhilarating.  He had never felt so free, to just let himself go and play without worrying about hurting anyone, not having to check every impulse because the lightest touch from him could break bones, tear flesh.  He had been knocked on his ass several times and had flagrantly fouled Whitney twice, but that was okay.  A couple of knocks were expected in b-ball.  And afterward, even though they lost, he felt satisfied, normal.  He saw the acceptance and begrudgingly admiring looks from Lana and Whitney, even if only for his good sportsmanship and not his admittedly unspectacular basketball skills.

"Well, we don't have to play on Tuesdays.  What day is good for you?"  Whitney asked, rousing Clark from his reverie.  

"I'm really busy, what with chores, deliveries for my parents and helping Chloe with the Torch."  Clark grinned.  "Besides, getting beat by you guys every week would probably lose its appeal after a while."

"Oh, I don't know about that," murmured Whitney in a low voice.  Clark's brow shot up in confusion.  Did Whitney just …?  No.  He sounded a little … no.  Was it?

"Huh?  What did you say?"  

"What I mean is that, um, it doesn't have to be you and Pete against me and Brent all the time.  We could, uh, trade off.  I could help you with your jump shot.  I think you could be good.  If you work on your outside shot, I think you might have a chance at making JV this year.  You're only a freshman, you've got the height and the potential …" Whitney babbled on about Clark's future as Smallville's next starter.  

Clark heard the words "zone defense, power forwards, proper wrist technique" filter in through in the background.  He wanted to kick himself for being stupid.  Whitney Fordman had been coming on to him?  Hah!  Whitney had to be the poster boy for All-American football hero, that is All-American _straight_ football hero.  Besides, even on the very slim to none chance that Whitney was not of the straight, but say of the slanted variety, there would be absolutely no way that he would be interested in him.  No way.  Not in Clark Kent, superdork.  

Although … Whitney is still talking to him – earnestly and beseechingly?  What the hell?!  Clark focused on Whitney's face, trying to decipher his expression, to translate the emotion clearly, um, emoting from him.  Then he saw it: guilt.  Guilt?  What did Whitney have to feel guilty about … Oh yeah.  Clark felt his lips stretch into an evil grin.  He saw Whitney's adam's apple glide up and down.  Nervous, eh Whitney?  Feeling a little remorse are we?  Wasn't very nice of you to tie a helpless freshman up in the middle of a cornfield.  So a little help on the courts, maybe the brush of social acceptance, you really think that is going to make up for the scarecrow humiliation?  Time for a little payback.****

****

Clark wanted to rub his hands together in glee.  What would make Whitney feel really bad?  How about a little emotional blackmail?  His smile widened to show his teeth.  Whitney finally stopped speaking and swallowed again.  Whitney blew at a strand of wheat colored hair by his right eye, but it just flopped back onto his forehead.  Clark was aware that they had drifted into one of those uncomfortable silences.  He didn't care, he wanted to see Whitney squirm.  Whitney cleared his throat.

"So how 'bout it Clark?  You want me to give you some pointers – in basketball?"

"No thanks, like I said I'm really busy."  Clark replied coldly.  Clark was proud of himself, the tone was dismissive and a touch condescending**.  **Wow, I totally channeled Lex! Clark glanced at Whitney to garner his reaction, ready to relish it.  Whitney looked hurt, embarrassed and a little something else – disappointed?  Clark felt his glee dissolve.  Damn it.  I'm not just superdork, I'm a total wuss.  Can't even stay mad at the guy who almost killed me.  

A little voice popped up "Lex almost killed you, too."  Well, it's not like Lex was trying to … neither was Whitney.  Okay, Whitney was a grade A jerk for doing what he did, but it was a school tradition, a messed up one, that's for sure, and it's not like you weren't trying to move in on Lana.  Damn it.

"Hey, Whit, that's nice and all, but I really am busy," a more conciliatory tone, sincere stress on the "really".  

"Nah, it's cool," Whitney seemed pathetically grateful for that backhanded consolation.  He took a breath.  "I'm actually busy, too.  Gotta help at the store.  I probably should be concentrating on helping my dad."  Whitney finished with a weak smile that highlighted the fatigue lines around his face and dark circles under his eyes.

Okay, Clark: major dork, check, total wuss, check, complete jerk, check.  Way to go.  Whitney's dad is in the hospital, he's totally tired out from helping at the store, probably not sleeping much either and I'm being petty and vindictive over something that happened over four months ago.

"Uh, so how you holding up there?  How's your dad doing?" asked Clark.  

"He's doing better, thanks.  He's such a control freak though.  Since he isn't at the store, he's driving my mom nuts rearranging stuff at the house."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I heard my mom mutter something about knives and pantry drawers yesterday and sticking things in their proper places."  Whitney chuckled a little and Clark smiled.  

"Well, I better go, I gotta see if I can beg, borrow or steal someone's geometry book."  Clark turned but was stopped by a hand on his forearm - a big, callused hand belonging to Whitney.  Clark shot him a questioning glance.  Whitney immediately dropped his hand, quickly, as if he'd been burned.  

Whitney moved his backpack to the front of his chest and unzipped the second compartment.  He rooted in it for a bit and pulled out a green book with the words "Euclidean Geometry: 3rd Edition" printed on the cover.

"I think this is yours.  I found it on the bleachers.  It has your name in it, I forgot, but I was going to give it to you."  Whitney's ears turned pink and he wouldn't meet Clark's gaze.  Clark took the book.

"Uh, thanks." Clark felt a little perturbed.  He got that weird vibe again.  It's just your imagination.  Nothing is going on.  Clark continued searching Whitney's face though, looking for something.

"Yeah, see, I wanted to talk to you, to thank you, about, you know Lana?  She told me that you were the one who told her to ask me about what was going on and stuff.  It really helped me - us, to talk about my dad, and she was really understanding."  Whitney stammered, the words coming out in a rush.  

Clark was relieved.  Whitney was just trying to thank him.  It must have been difficult considering their history.  Pete and Lana are right; I guess Whitney isn't that bad.  This thing with his dad is probably even maturing him.  Making him less shallow.  

"Yeah, Lana's really great." Clark offered.  

"She is great."  Whitney echoed brightly.

"Well, I'll see you later Whit."  Clark turned and walked out of the gym.  He felt as if Whitney was staring at him the entire time but he didn't dare look back to see if he was right.  The minute he stepped out of the gym and the doors shut, he used his "enhanced" vision to look at Whitney.  Yup, Whitney was staring at him, or at least in the direction he had been going.  He saw Whitney cock his head to the right a little.  After several moments, in which Clark did not realize he was holding his breath, Whitney shook his head a little and walked towards the other exit of the gym.  

Very weird.               


	2. Whitney's POV

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (2/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  R for language and lots of slashy, angsty thoughts

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney wants to play basketball with Clark, Whitney POV

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Leech

Feedback:  Would be appreciated

Notes:  Thanks to my wonderful beta Maddie for helping me polish up this story.  

Whitney Fordman was tired.  He had been up until 2AM the night before to do inventory at his dad's store.  He was still amazed that they carry 19 distinct models of blenders.  Just how different could blenders really be from one another?      

He hefted his backpack onto his right shoulder.  At least now he could go home and get some sleep.  He walked down towards the locker rooms.  He had taken to parking his truck in the small staff parking lot behind the gym.  The lot was actually reserved for part-time coaches, but hey, there were some perks to being the school's star quarterback.  He didn't usually abuse those privileges but he and his truck had been having some bad luck lately.  He wanted to minimize the probability of his baby getting hurt again.  

Whitney entered the gym from the shortcut through the boys' locker room.  His eyes immediately latched onto the only other figure in the room – Clark Kent.  He stopped to appreciate the sight of that broad shouldered, slim hipped hottie with the incredible ass.  Clark was turned slightly away from him, and seemed to be looking for something.  Then he turned around and Whitney lost the view of those nicely rounded, firm …  ah … but the front was great, too.  Whitney saw Clark muttering to himself, and watched as a flush stole up his neck.  Hmm, feeling a little warm, Clark?  Heated?  Flushed? Oh shit, better say something before he catches me drooling over him.  

"Hey Kent" Look cool, be calm.  

"Hi, Whitney" Clark replied flatly.  

He tried to suppress that surge of annoyance at Clark's obvious displeasure in seeing him.  It's okay, Fordman.  So the object of your lust and desire doesn't want to talk to you.  So what.  Be a man.  Get over it.  Whitney cleared his throat.  And got an impatient look from Clark.  

"So, uh, Brent, Pete and I waited for you on Tuesday after school."  Whitney flashed back to the basketball game two weeks ago.  It had been heaven.  It had been torture.   He'd been covering Clark the whole time, touching him, brushing his body against Clark's.

"What?"  Clark gave him a blank look.  Whitney deflated a bit.

"Remember, basketball – on Tuesdays?  We thought you might want to play again, so we waited" Whitney had waited for 40 minutes.  Pete told him that Clark wouldn't come, that his playing had been some aberration when Clark had been "not Clark-like."  But still Whitney had waited, let other guys go ahead, pretended to stretch, run laps, practice shooting – all in a vain attempt to look like he had not been waiting for Clark.  As five minutes had passed into ten, Brent and Pete had hooked up as a team.  When ten minutes passed into fifteen, Whitney had started getting worried that Clark might have picked up on a vibe from him and was staying away because of it.  By the time he had realized Clark was definitely not coming, he had gone through two semi-panic attacks.  He had been terrified that Clark had picked up on his lust, was appalled, horrified, repulsed, etc. and was telling everybody about how big queer Whitney had put the moves on him.  God, he hated being a teenager.     

"Oh yeah, well um, I was busy, you know … um helping Chloe with the Torch, uh yeah, she needs a lot of help, that Chloe …" Oh yeah, Chloe, that girl with the flippy blonde hair and the snippy comments.  He saw the way she looked at Clark, yearned for Clark. 

"Yeah, I'll just bet she does" Whitney couldn't hide the snarky tone.  He saw Clark's eyes go wide.  Didn't realize she had the hots for you, huh?  

"So, will Chloe need help next Tuesday too?   You and Pete could meet us outside next week; weather's getting a little nicer."  Whitney asked pleasantly, in his best "I am a heterosexual male, let us bond in the non-homoerotic ritual known as full body contact sports" voice.

"Yeah, I gotta help her, I don't think I'll be able to play anymore" Clark sighed a little and Whitney bit his lip to prevent emitting a groan.  Jesus, Clark's lips should be outlawed.  They were full and so soft-looking, too luscious really to belong to a man.  And to top it off, sexy little noises should not be allowed to come out of them.  It was too much.  

Whitney was trying hard not to lean forward, he almost felt as if some gravitational force was pulling him towards that mouth – that incredible mouth.  He noticed that Clark had this happy expression on his face, thinking of something else?  Whatever it was, it probably had nothing to do with Whitney.      

"Well, we don't have to play on Tuesdays, what day is good for you?"  Hey Clark, attention back to me, please.  Any day that's good for you will be great for me.  Shit, he's so eager and horny, it's laughable.  That's right, folks, see Whitney Fordman, bend over backwards, sideways or forwards, uh, definitely forwards, for one Clark Kent of the gorgeous blue eyes and outlaw lips.  Damn it, pay attention, Clark's lips are moving again.        

"I'm really busy, what with chores, deliveries for my parents and helping Chloe with the Torch."  Clark grinned.  "Besides, getting beat by you guys every week would probably lose its appeal after a while."  Images of "beating" Clark threaten to short-circuit his brain.  His neurons were so busy uploading these delicious visuals that his tongue was no longer inhibited by the part of the brain that's supposed to prevent him from saying bad things. 

"Oh, I don't know about that" he drawled.  Holy Shit!  I didn't just say that, and not all husky and low, like I was propositioning him.  Please let that one have slipped by Clark, please, please.  Clark looks surprised, confused, shit, shit shit!

"Huh?  What did you say?"  Clark may be naïve, but he's not stupid.  Get yourself out of this – think fast Fordman.

"What I mean is that, um, it doesn't have to be you and Pete against me and Brent all the time.  We could, uh, trade off.  I could help you with your jump shot.  I think you could be good.  If you work on your outside shot, I think you might have a chance at making JV this year.  You're only a freshman, you've got the height and the potential …" Whitney's mouth kicked into autopilot.  He could talk about basketball strategy and technique in his sleep.  Clark's still looking at me funny.  He could see the gears whirring in Clark's brain.  Please let me not have ruined this, keep on talking, tell him about the different positions you think he'd be good in, no, no not in … fuck, playing – positions he would be playing.  Keep talking, Clark's buying it.  Whew. 

Whitney's still rambling on.  Clark sort of smiled at him with that shy, sheepish half grin that makes him feel like someone just dropped kicked a football in his stomach.  God, Clark is so gorgeous, beautiful really in the way no one should be allowed to be.  When had he first noticed it (consciously, anyway)?  His body, of course, knew it that wonderful horrible night of the Homecoming game.  He had glanced up and saw Clark stretched out, tied to the post like some kind of pagan offering.  He'd been paralyzed.  Every nerve ending had felt like it was on fire.  It had taken all of his willpower not to run his tongue up from the taut muscles of Clark's abdomen in a slow, sensuous path directly to that tempting lower lip.  

God … I'm sorry Clark.  I'm sorry that your suffering turned me on so much   I'm sorry that I strung you up.  He's looking into Clark's eyes trying to transmit his regret.  But Clark just looks – confused?     

All of a sudden Clark lips form into the sexiest smile he's ever seen … from Clark … directed at him.  It's  … it's … predatory.  Oh God, I'm the helpless little bunny rabbit!  And Clark is definitely the wolf.  Clark's eyes are focused on him.  Whitney has the insane urge to glance around, because this is the point in those nature shows when the pack of wild animals slowly circles their helpless prey.  And he's the scared little animal waiting for them (for Clark) to pounce.  

Clark's lips move to reveal his blindingly white teeth.  But this isn't Clark's normal comforting "I'm the nice, unassuming boy-next-door" smile.  This smile says "I'm ready for the world and it better be to my liking – or else".  Okay, that's it, Whitney's just stopped talking. His brain has shut down from all this stimuli.  Whitney's mouth was dry; he must swallow.  Yup, basic bodily functions are about all he can handle right now.  Ah, must move hair out of my eye, blocking vision of Clark, pretty Clark.  That's right, blowing my hair off my face.  Phhff.  Phhff.  Stupid hair just poked me in the eye.  Damn, I gotta get a haircut.  

Whitney's just realized that it's been silent for a while now.  Uh, what was I saying?  Am I supposed to talk?  Whitney cleared his throat, stalling for time, what the hell were we talking about?  

****

Oh yeah.

"So how 'bout it Clark?  You want me to give you some pointers – in basketball?"  Please say yes, please say yes, the power of the repeated mantra.  Please say …

"No thanks, like I said I'm really busy."  

Whoa, didn't expect that kind of tone to ever come from Clark.  I didn't even know he knew how to sneer.  Did I offend him?  C'mon Fordman, berated his "reality" voice, get with the program.  Clark doesn't like you, probably can't stand your stupid jock self.  Remember the scarecrow thing?  Remember how he worships Lana?  You're the big lumpy obstacle he needs to kick out of the way.  He's probably wishing you'd conveniently step off a cliff somewhere or fall into a nice meteor sized crater.  Sigh, his "reality" voice really wasn't very nice sometimes.

"Hey, Whit, that's nice and all, but I really am busy" Clark replied again, in a much nicer tone.  

Am I so fucking obvious?  Clark, so innocent and painfully oblivious (painful for Whitney anyway), can tell how disappointed I am.  Take your lumps like a man, Whitney.   

"Nah, it's cool" I smile weakly.  See, I'm okay; I'm not really hurt or anything.  I'm okay, really.  

"I'm actually busy, too.  Gotta help at the store.  I probably should be concentrating on helping my dad."  That's right, I have to return to the hell that has become my life.  No time for happy Clark episodes.

"Uh, so how you holding up there?  How's your dad doing?" asked Clark.  

This was it.  This was what propelled Clark out of his secret fantasies and into this powerful desire to just be with him, near him, anything.  Clark is just a genuinely nice guy – goodhearted.  Here's this warm, interesting, funny person who just happens to be unbelievably gorgeous and … Wham!  Whitney's hooked.     

"He's doing better, thanks.  He's such a control freak though, since he isn't at the store, he's driving my mom nuts rearranging stuff at the house."  Dad's been fucking driving him nuts, too.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I heard my mom mutter something about knives and pantry drawers yesterday and sticking things in their proper places."  Whitney thought about the look on his mother's face yesterday and laughed.  Yup, Dad's not long for this world.  Clark smiled.   Yay!

"Well, I better go, I gotta see if I can beg, borrow or steal someone's geometry book."  Book?  Oh, you mean the book that's been burning a hole in my backpack for the last three hours.  The book he had casually picked up from the bleachers at lunchtime?  When he had been stalking, um, lurking, um, standing around in the locker room, peering through the glass watching Clark shooting balls.  The book that was supposed to be his excuse, er, reason to talk to Clark.  You mean that book?  

Clark was already turning around to go.  Oops, better give him the book.  

Whitney reached out and grabbed his arm.  Whitney felt tingling awareness zing straight through his arm, shoot down his body and land in his groin.  Oh my God!  Talk about zero to 60.  Shit, his engine was all fired and ready to go.    

Whitney quickly moved his backpack in front of him hoping to hide his body's reaction.  He hurriedly opened his backpack and stuck his hand into the pocket to cover its trembling.  His clumsy fingers finally got a hold of the book and pulled it out.  He handed the green math book to Clark.  Down boy, take a deep breath.

"I think this is yours.  I found it on the bleachers.  It has your name in it, I forgot, but I was going to give it to you."  There's a lot I'd like to give you Clark. Whitney was hot.  Quit getting yourself all excited and maybe, maybe, you can get through this without jumping Clark's bones.

"Uh, thanks" Clark's looking at him funny again.  What else can I say?  Say anything.

"Yeah, see, I wanted to talk to you, to thank you, about, you know Lana?  She told me that you were the one who told her to ask me about what was going on and stuff.  It really helped me - us, to talk about my dad, and she was really understanding."  Lana had been understanding.  Whitney was grateful to have her.  

"Yeah, Lana's really great." Clark offered.  

"She is great."  Guilt gnawed at him for desiring this boy when Lana stood so steadfastly by him.  But look at him.  It can't be helped.  Clark Kent is like a force of nature.  

"Well, I'll see you later Whit."  Clark turned and walked out of the gym.  

Whitney watched him go.  One day, Clark.  Me and you.  It has to be, because I'm going crazy like this.  One day  … soon.           


	3. Whitney's remorse

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (3/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  NC-17 for language, lots of slashy, angsty thoughts and m/m sex, sort of.

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney thinks about Homecoming, Lana, Clark and other things.

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Leech.  This takes place between Leech and Kinetic.  Small spoiler for Kinetic, referred to in the Notes also.

Feedback:  Would be appreciated.  When it's nice, it makes me happy.  Please let me know what you think.  Should I continue?  

Notes:  Thanks for all the lovely feedback, it has really inspired me to write more.  Oh, and I reloaded this chapter.  I didn't realize my italics didn't come up on the site so that you couldn't tell between Whitney's imagination and his, ahem, activity.  So the indentation and ***Denotes Whitney's sex fantasy***.  I originally did have the same reason for Whitney to lose his scholarship, but then I also saw it at the Smallville Ledger, so I eagerly used the name they provided.  Thanks to Maddie, my wonderful, fantabulous beta!  Yes, I know "fantabulous" is not a word, but it should be.     

Ugh.  His head was pounding.  Whitney opened his eyes and peered into the darkness of his room.  He slowly moved his head to the right; the clock read 9:24 PM.  He closed his eyes again.  There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes.  He knew he shouldn't have taken a nap, but he'd been so tired.  He felt uncomfortable and he had that unpleasantly dry cotton sensation in his mouth.  

He slowly sat up in his bed.  The pain in his head intensified.  Is this what a hangover felt like?  He hadn't had any alcohol but he could imagine this wretchedness as the punishment for chugging too much brew.  It's funny because you can't really get away from drinking when you're on the football team, but he never had more than one or two drinks at a time.  He needed to be in control at all times.  After all, it wouldn't do for the star quarterback to be caught making drunken passes at one of his teammates.  

Whitney let his upper body fall back down onto the bed – and really regretted it.  Gah!  The pain.  Why is God punishing me?!    

Instantly, an image of Clark Kent tied to a pole in the middle of a cornfield flashed in his mind.  Oh God!  He felt the familiar current of lust and longing mixed with shame well up inside him at the memory.  

He hadn't really wanted to tie anyone up.  He'd had a speech all ready and everything.  It had been the hot topic of conversation at lunch that day.  He had been trying to get the guys to focus on the game instead.  Their defensive line wasn't as strong as he'd like it to be … but attention kept going back to potential scarecrow candidates.  Kevin, in particular kept bringing up Clark's name.  Whitney knew Kevin was jealous of his relationship with Lana.  Kevin kept an eye on Lana at all times.  It was weird; he knew Kevin liked Lana.  But, Kevin understood the workings of the established social hierarchy at school.  It was okay that his friend and teammate had Lana, but watch out if some lowly freshman nobody tried to make a move.  He kept ranting about how Whitney needed to teach that tall skinny freshman how to stay in his place and stay away from Lana.

Sometimes, Whitney's tired of having to protect what was "his" all the time.  Lana attracted so many guys, and girls even, he wondered if it was worth it.  But, hell, that's what attracted him to her, too.  It wasn't so much that she was perfect and beautiful; she was just too nice for her own good.  He'd _wanted_ to protect her, felt compelled to do so.

During summer football practice, he'd seen a lot of guys hit on her and she hadn't seemed interested in any of them.  But she was always so kind, never quite turning a guy down, but not really responding back to them either.  And then he'd see the looks, heard the bragging from Kevin or Sean or Derek in the locker room about how they would "bag" the hot new cheerleader.  She was a date rape statistic just waiting to happen.  Didn't she understand that she had to be firm and say no?  Be mean sometimes, so that the message "not interested" was clearly transmitted?  That her sympathetic dismissals seemed like coy teasing to frustrated and horny teenage boys?  That one of these days some guy was going to attack her?  Obviously she didn't, or wouldn't.

So, he'd joined the crowd, separating her from some of the more unsavory elements.  He would talk with her, silently warning away the guys that got too pushy.  Eventually it seemed natural for Whitney to give her a ride to practice every day, to walk her to her door.  And then on their first "date" when he had given her a peck on the cheek, Lana had suddenly hugged him fiercely and thanked him for watching out for her.  That was it – they were officially a couple.

And it's been great.  He was the most envied guy in the whole school.  There were no more questions.  Why don't you have a girlfriend, Whitney?  Why don't you ever go out with some nice girls, Whitney?  Nobody could question his sexuality, I mean, really, look at Lana, she's every straight guy's fantasy come to life.  Even he could appreciate her beauty; and sometimes he thought he felt something, something physical when she looked at him a certain way, like she was trying to figure him out.  He wondered if she knew.  If she wondered why he never pushed her to be more intimate with him.  He touched her all the time, though.  He liked to wrap his arm around her – tucking her head under his chin, liked caressing her hair.  Whenever he kissed her, he felt warm and comfortable, happy even.  Because he truly cared for her, maybe even loved her.  

So yeah, he was threatened.  He was a little pissed.  Lana was his girlfriend and maybe Clark did need to be taught a lesson.  But stripping someone down and crucifying him in the middle of nowhere had seemed too extreme.  But Kevin had been insistent and suddenly, it seemed everybody agreed.  Whitney had looked around, seeing anticipation on the faces of his teammates; the excitement was almost palpable.  Of course, a couple of the guys looked uncomfortable, Mark and Trevor, decent guys both, didn't look like they wanted to participate.  Whitney had started to disagree and Mark had brought up the point that wasting pre-game energy on some stupid prank was lame.  But then, Whitney had heard it, the word that, unfortunately, had sealed Clark's fate.

"C'mon Whitney, don't be such a wuss.  While you're being all sensitive 'n shit, that faggot Kent's gonna be moving in on your girl."  There had been a dull roar in his ears.  He heard some of the guys goading him on with "It's tradition" and "Man, we gotta do it" and other stupid one-liners but the word "faggot" was echoing in stereo surround sound over and over in his head.  It wasn't even directed at him but – that was it.  Whitney _had_ to do it.    

He had even tried to psych himself up for it.  Clark was trying to steal Lana away from him.  It was tradition.  Clark deserved it … and so on.  And it had worked; some part of him had relished it – that sense of power and entitlement to just pick some random person and have them completely at his mercy.  It was disturbing even now to remember how much he had enjoyed it – right up to the point he had looked up at Clark.  

The picture was seared into his brain.  A perfect scene stored in his memory vault, like a valuable jewel to be taken out and lovingly viewed and examined – then carefully put away until the next time.  

Clark had been elevated about a foot or so above the ground, putting Whitney right at eye level with that magnificent chest.  Whitney felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut.  In all his born days, he'd never seen a more perfect vision of male beauty.  Clark was all sinewy muscle and lithe grace.  Whitney had drank in the sight of him – the pale moonlight reflecting off his long body, making shadows on the angles and planes of Clark's torso.  He'd wanted to run his fingers along the indentations defining the six-pack abs.  He'd wanted to worship the body hanging before him with his tongue, to lick off the sweat glistening on that taut tan flesh.

And then he had looked into Clark's face.  His body had been overwhelmed with lust.  He had never gotten so hard so fast in his life.  This was the part of that night that alarmed him the most, sickened him.  Because … because, he saw the pain written all over Clark's face, the distress, the pleading in his eyes to stop, but that's what had aroused him the most.  His pain had been beautiful, a siren's call that Whitney had wanted to answer with soothing kisses and soft caresses.  It was hard to live with the realization that he was a bit of a sadist.  That the tender caring side he thought he had was paired with the dark desire to hurt.

Then Kevin had held up the can of spray paint to the left side of Clark's chest, and he'd been enraged at the thought of marring that pristine perfection.  He'd wanted to rip Kevin's arm off, but had been jerked back to attention by Sean's taunting.

"Hey, Kevin, you moron, the letter 'S' starts from right to left, not left to right."  The resulting laughter gave him time to get his body back under control.  But still, he'd had to bite his lip against protesting when Kevin had started spraying.  And after, when he saw that ugly red 'S' on Clark's chest, he'd felt like crying.  

The rest of the night passed in a blur.  The game, the dance – it was one long indistinguishable loop.  Well, until he saw his truck, perilously perched upon so many other vehicles.  Whitney couldn't help it, it was shallow and so stereotypical but – he loved his truck.  Really.  It was terrible to admit but he worried about his truck almost as much as he worried about his dad.  

Sometimes Whitney had this fantasy.  In it he went back to untie Clark from the post and they talked … among other things.  Who was he kidding, sometimes?  All the time, this has been his favorite jack-off fantasy for months.  He glided his hand down his chest until he reached his pants.  He unhooked the fly and carefully stroked himself through his briefs as he started envisioning the scenario.  He usually varied it a bit but it always started the same way:

***He's cleared the cornfield and stands right in front of Clark.  Clark is still hanging there, the 'S' emblazoned on his chest.  Clark gazes at him soulfully – hungrily.  

_"I'm sorry, Clark" he says with all the remorse and sorrow he truly feels.  _

_"I know" Clark replies.  He's sees the forgiveness in Clark's eyes._

_He reaches his hand out to Clark and touches him – lays the palm side down at the beginning of the 'S'.  He lovingly trails his hand down that path and the red paint magically disappears***_

His hand was underneath his briefs now, firmly grasping his cock.  He's slowly rubbing up and down the shaft.

***Then he repeats the design with his tongue, taking the time to suck and nibble a little on Clark's left nipple.  He's playing and worrying it with his lips.  He can hear Clark moaning above him, encouraging him.  Next he's slowly pulling down Clark's boxers to reveal a large beautifully-shaped penis.  His mouth waters at the sight.  He moves forward a little and makes a teasing little swipe at the head with his tongue. 

_Clark groans some more.  "Quit being such a tease, Whitney."_

_Whitney opens his mouth and takes in the head.  He swirls his tongue around the ridge and sucks hard.  Clark's whole body jerks.  Whitney smiles around his cock.  Whitney's hands have been rubbing up and down Clark's muscular legs.  He moves them up further and behind to grab Clark's ass – hard.  Clark jerks again and this time there's a delicious tangy taste in his mouth that's got to be 100% cornfed farmboy.  _

_He lifts his head up.  _

_"Clark, you've got control yourself a little … or this will be over too soon.  Maybe I should stop …" he lets the sentence drift off._

_"No, no, don't stop" begs Clark.  Clark's panting now***_

Whitney was panting now, too.  He let his grip slacken a little and slowed the pace.  He didn't want to cum too soon.

***Whitney moves his right hand up to the base of Clark's shaft.  He gives it a little squeeze.  His left hand is still kneading Clark's buttocks.  His mouth opens wider to take in that luscious  - ***

"Whitney?  Honey, are you awake?" 

Shit!  Whitney fumbled with his pants and his underwear.

"Uh yeah, mom …" God, his voice sounded hoarse.

"Honey, are you getting sick?  I saved you some dinner." he heard the knob of his bedroom door turning …

"No, no, uh, I'm fine, I'll be right down, mom!"  He heard the click of the knob turning back.

"Okay"

Shit.  Whitney reluctantly got out of bed.  

Well, whaddya know, his headache was all gone.  He grinned.  Clark Kent, the cure for what ails ya.  Whitney trudged into the bathroom attached to his room.  He flipped on the light switch.  

He looked at his face in the mirror.  Boy, he looked like shit.  He splashed a little cold water on his face.  

Fifteen minutes later, he's downstairs at the kitchen table eating pot roast and mashed potatoes.  The pot roast was a little rubbery and tough, it was amazing, his mother was such a great cook with everything else but couldn't cook beef at all.  It always came out too burnt, or too raw.  He just shoveled some potatoes in his mouth.  Mm, good.  

His dad was sitting across from him, looking over, more like scowling over the inventory report Whitney left for him that morning.  I really don't want to hear it, dad.  Whitney got up to get a drink.  He opened the cabinet over the sink.  All he saw were plates.  Where were the damn glasses?

"Mom, where are the glasses?"

"In the cabinet, by the fridge" her answer was short, annoyed.  Whitney cringed.  He'd forgotten his parents' fight from the day before.  

His dad had been his usually overbearing self … all the glasses should be by the refrigerator, after all, where are the drinks? (triumphant pause) The refrigerator, it just makes sense Betty, I don't know why you don't think of these things … he'd gone off and criticized her about other "misplaced" items and the inefficient layout of her kitchen.  

He was surprised that his mother hadn't hurled anything at his dad yet.  But she's been trying so hard to humor him, because of the heart condition.  

"Whitney, are you sure you went over the flat screens properly, it doesn't seem right, we should have sold at least …" Whitney tensed up.

"I'm sure, dad"  

"Did you count the display model?  You know turnover for those Sony models has been pretty consistent, are you sure you changed the floor plan like I told you too?  It's really important, son, that the products are placed directly in the customer's line of vision, maybe I should take a look at it – "

"Whitney, you received a letter today."  He was grateful to his mom for interrupting.  

"Betty, do you mind, I'm talking about the store, here, Whitney has to – "

"It's from Kansas State, dad" That shut him up.  His parents were looking at him expectantly.  He tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter and started reading the contents:

            "Dear Mr. Fordman,

            We regret to inform you that our office is unable to extend the Richard Corson Scholarship Grant for Excellence to you.  We sincerely hope that this will not affect your decision to enter the freshman class of …"

He couldn't read the rest of the letter.  There was a burning sensation in his gut.  He wanted to throw up.  His father grabbed the letter from his hand.  He was vaguely cognizant of his father spluttering in outrage, if he wasn't so numb, he would laugh.  

His father was yelling obscenities.  He saw his mother trying vainly to calm him down.  

Dad was calling the scout Larry Schonfield or Schonfeld or something.  

He could hear his dad on the phone in the living room.

"What the fuck is this horseshit, Larry?!  You said he had it, we just had to wait …(pause) … No!  I will not fucking calm down! … (pause) … Goddamnit, Larry, Whitney's all state!  Do you know what the hell you're doing? … (pause) … What?!…" Whitney's dad wasn't yelling anymore, at least not so that he could hear it.  

Minutes pass, hours, days, that's what it felt like.  His dad came back into the kitchen.  He walked to the table where Whitney was sitting, frozen, since the letter.  He placed his right hand on Whitney's shoulder and tried to give him a reassuring squeeze.

"They gave it to Darin Mark.  I'm sorry, son."  His dad said softly.  That was all he needed to say.  Darin Mark was the first pick on the all-state team.  They hadn't even thought he might want to join the Wildcats.  But the math was simple Darin's in and Whitney's out.  Whitney couldn't stand the pity in his dad's face … for him.

His dreams of getting out – finally being free, to be his real self … were gone.  He couldn't believe it.  He was trapped.  His mind refused to process it.  

He looked up at his mom.  She smiled at him sadly, he assumed it was supposed to be comforting or supportive, but it was really more horrifying than anything else.

Because it was true.  It was gone ... he was trapped.


	4. Clark and Whitney talk

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (4/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  PG-13 for slash, m/m interaction (no sex)

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney and Clark talk about things 

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Kinetic.

Feedback:  Would be appreciated.  Please let me know what you think.  Should I continue?  

Notes:  The boys finally talk.  Oh, such lovely, lovely angst.  I know Whitney is a bit of a drama queen here, but the boy's been through a lot lately.  Thanks to Maddie, my wonderful beta.  Gotta fix those tenses.  

Thunk ……..thunk…..thunk...thunk…clink clank whoosh.  The sounds reverberated in Smallville High's cavernous gym.  Clark has just seen Whitney Fordman complete an easy lay up.  It was very relaxing to watch his lanky figure casually move down the basketball court.  Now, Whitney crouched low, dribbling the ball – propelling it between his legs, switching from left hand to right hand and back again.  

Hm, how ambidextrous, thought Clark.  

Whitney's body unfolded as he sprang up into the air.  The ball was released with a flick of the wrist and traveled in a perfect arc towards the basket … swoosh.  It was a three-pointer.

"Nice shot." 

 "Oh, hey, Clark.  Thanks."  Whitney took a break and brushed the back of his arm against his forehead.  While Clark approached him at the sidelines, Whitney bent down and grabbed his water bottle.  He tugged the pull-top cap open with his teeth and took a long, deep drink.  Clark's gaze focused on Whitney's throat as he swallowed the cool liquid.  Suddenly his mouth was feeling a little dry and he wished for something to cool him down too.

 "So, how are you Whitney?  What have you been doing lately?"  Clark asked, the concern evident in his manner.  

"Oh, well let's see – last week I almost committed a felony, had my body physiologically altered, and nearly got smashed by an old Chevy" he responded in a wry tone.  

Whitney was gifted with a brilliant 1000 mega-watt grin.  Wow, his teeth are amazingly white.  He could imagine Clark making a fortune as a game show host.  Hell, he wouldn't even have to give out prizes, people would fork over money just to be in the studio audience.

"Seriously though, have you felt any side affects or anything?  You don't know what those guys put into your body."  

Oh, so you care about my body, Clark?  

"Well, I've been feeling … I guess my body's felt kind of … squiggly."

"Squiggly?"  Clark quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know how to describe it, I feel kind of loose, like a slinky … or when your TV picture is shaky?  You know how the vertical wiggles around?  That's what it feels like."

"Ahh, "Squiggly", I know of what you speak, young grasshopper" Clark answered in a mock solemn voice, accompanied by the obligatory hand steeple under the chin.  

"Funny, Kent.  Not everyone has the pretentious vocabulary necessary to write for the Torch."

"Oh, I don't write, not really.  I basically turn a story in to Chloe and she mutilates it with the Red Pen of Death.  Then I type it up.  I type for the paper."  A self-deprecating smile appeared on Clark's face.

"Chloe does seem, um, overzealous about the Torch."  Whitney offered diplomatically.

"It's her passion.  Pete and I keep some of the drafts because you can make pictures out of the editing marks.  My favorite is the 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre'.  You can actually make out the chainsaw."  Now Whitney was the one quirking an eyebrow at him.  

"Well, with all that red, the pictures generally turn out to be pretty gruesome, body parts, dead people, stuff like that."  Clark shrugged nonchalantly.  

"I didn't realize you news types were so bloodthirsty."

"Well, not all of us, I guess, Lana managed to get a one legged duck with a baseball cap.  She hasn't slipped over into the dark side yet."  Whitney's face became completely devoid of expression.  Clark mentally berated himself.  Good going, Einstein.  Mention the girl you're obsessed with to her boyfriend.  Maybe he can give you tips on how to impress her.  Maybe he'll just gallantly step aside – right after he tries running you over with his truck.

"I didn't know she was still helping with the paper."  Whitney has barely had a chance to see her all week.  Granted, he had been avoiding her.  He was still ashamed of his behavior and trying to cope with all the drama in his life lately.

"Oh, she's not.  She's been really busy trying to get the building up to code for the Grand Opening of the Talon."  The words babbled out, as he tried to appease Whitney.  He wanted to get back to the genial camaraderie they had before he had stupidly uttered Lana's name.  See, I'm nice, "non-threatening-to-your-relationship" Clark.  That it was the unfortunate truth galled him.  

"Yeah, she mentioned how 'helpful' you've been with that, too."  Whitney's penetrating gaze made him want to squirm.   It wasn't accusatory, per se, more like a challenge recognized and accepted.  The gloves were off.

"Well, I kinda encouraged her so … and it's a lot of responsibility, Lex expects …" Clark stammered out what he could, but there wasn't anything acceptable he could say.  He was making time with Lana.  He knew it; Whitney knew it.

"I see."  Whitney looked thoughtful, as if he was contemplating something.

"Do you want to play some one-on-one?"  The abrupt change in topic caught Clark off guard and he took a moment to process what had been said.

"Uh, sorry Whitney, I don't …"

"Fine, sure, forget it."  Whitney knew the anger and, let's face it, disappointment that he felt was way out of proportion in light of the situation, but he couldn't help it.  He didn't take rejection well.  In fact, he sucked at it.  

"Look, it's just …" Clark didn't know what to say.  

"I said it's fine, Clark."  

"Whitney …" He didn't want him to go like this.  What do you want from me?  Why do you even want to hang out with me, Whitney?

"I don't get it, Clark.  You saved my life last week, you show all this concern with how I'm doing, but you can't stand to be around me?  You want to be buddies, but you want to steal my girl?  You blow hot and cold.  Just tell me how you want it to be because all this back and forth is driving me insane!"  Wow.  Clark's a little stunned.  He had no idea that Whitney felt this way.  

"I want us to be – friends," Clark said slowly, hesitatingly.  He didn't know what he wanted from Whitney.  To be friends – or to not be enemies?  Enemies was too strong a word.  To not be rivals, adversaries.  Was that it?

Whitney snorted.  "Yeah, I can tell how eager you are to be my friend.  Next time you use that line, you might want to try that sincere, earnest thing you usually do.  It makes it more believable."

"Does it occur to you that maybe I just don't want to play basketball?  It's not like you've asked me to do anything else with you."  Clark was trying to read Whitney's expression, searching for some hint of understanding.  All he saw was belligerence and exasperation, or maybe it was resignation.

"No, it doesn't.  I know … " Whitney paused to take a deep breath, "I know I can't make up for Homecoming – the scarecrow – for what I did to you.  You have every right to hate me, I just don't know what you want from me."  I want to make it up to you Clark.  I don't want you to hate me.  He took another deep breath. 

"Do you want Lana?  Is that what it's going to take?"  Whitney's voice had an urgent, ragged quality to it.

"Geez, Whitney!  No – look, I let that scarecrow thing go already, okay?  And Lana's not some toy to be traded off."  Clark took a moment to organize his thoughts.  The conversation had gotten too heated.  Too many things were going through his mind; things he didn't want to delve into too deeply.  

"I know that my friendship with Lana bothers you.  And – I admit that sometimes, I wish it could be more , but I respect what you have with her.  I'm not trying to take her away from you."  Crystal blue eyes implored him.  Whitney could let it go right now, take the olive branch.  He could go on his merry way with Lana, and maybe he and Clark might eventually be friends, the type of friends that hung out and did stuff, but never talked.  The kind of friends he has right now, the kind of friends he realized he didn't even like much.  Because sometimes being with them made him feel even more isolated and alone.  

"Clark, this has nothing to do with Lana.  This is between us."  

The look in Whitney's eyes made Clark want to turn away.  This tension, the whole dynamic, between him and Whitney had been brewing for some time, but he wasn't ready to confront it yet.  He didn't want to do any more questioning, any more soul searching.  Why couldn't he be a normal teenager for once?  He resented Whitney for pushing.  Why couldn't he just leave it alone?  

"Look Whitney, there isn't anything … I don't know what you're talking about, okay?"  Just let it go.  Please.

"Why did you save me, Clark?  Why do you keep trying to help me?  And then drop me?  Is it like a game to you or something?"  Whitney was trying hard to keep his voice neutral, but he felt desperate and pathetically hopeful all at once.  Because any attention from Clark was, not wonderful exactly, but … validating.  Clark was the one person who had every right to hate him, but ironically he was the only person Whitney could depend on, that he felt he could talk to.

"What are you talking about?"  Clark was genuinely bewildered at the depth of emotion coming from Whitney.  

"You save me, Clark, from my truck, from Wade and those guys, from myself even.  You help me with Lana – God, she was ready to kick me to the curb.  And I can talk to you … about my dad, the store, even the damn scholarship I lost."  Whitney ran his hand through his hair, pushing his bangs off his forehead.

"But you also tried to take Lana to that concert.  You attack me at the Tibbet place.  And at the plant, I don't get it, we could have taken that shaky guy down.  It's like you couldn't stand to help me.  One day you want to be my best friend, the next day you're my worst enemy or something."  

Clark was amazed.  He'd never thought about how his actions might appear to Whitney, all he had ever been worried about was keeping his secret.  What was even more amazing was how much Whitney seemed to have thought about their … relationship?  It was puzzling.  It's almost as if …

"Do you remember the night of the museum exhibition?"  Whitney's wistful inquiry interrupted Clark's chain of thought.  He's a little irritated, he needed time to work this out.  But Whitney continued on without waiting for Clark's reply.

"I saw you talking to Lex Luthor, and it was so clear, you were just as uncomfortable as I was.  Lana said she was going to bring you over so that we could stand tall in hick solidarity or something like that.  I waited for you to come by the table, I wanted to apologize to you.  I saw you leave out the front instead.  Then when we heard the commotion and saw that mangled bus ... "  Whitney's voice broke a little.

"I thought that you were … that you might be … but then you weren't.  I don't know, but I thought, wow, you'd rather be almost hit by a bus than share a table with me.  It kind of drove that point home."  Whitney grimaced.    

"That doesn't make any sense, there's no way I could have known that a bus …" the flow of words dried up as Clark looked into Whitney's face.  Really looked … because it was there.  Longing and desire.  For him.  All these little slights and perceptions, seemingly processed and analyzed over and over again.  It was the type of thing he did with Lana, taking the smallest bits of conversation and replaying it in his mind trying to uncover any hint of interest on her part.  That was what Whitney had done with him.  Life just got weirder every day in this town.

Whitney realized the moment Clark got it.  He could either face the truth or he could try to pretend he didn't feel the way he did about Clark.  He could try to play it off, but, no, he won't – he wanted Clark, craved his presence.  He'd rather know one way or the other.

Clark didn't know how to proceed.  He was surprised – but not as much as he imagines he should be.  On some level he must have known, must have recognized Whitney's interest in him.  He's not repulsed … he was flattered and a little intrigued, maybe.  Wow, Whitney, who had Lana, was interested him.  He was Whitney's Lana, no that didn't make sense, he was Whitney's Clark, whoa, no, he's his own Clark.  Argh!

"Did you just growl at me?"  Whitney, who'd been prepared for any multitude of responses from Clark, did not expect that one.  

"Um … no?"  And Whitney had to laugh at Clark's sheepish, innocent "Who, me?" expression.  It was too adorable, even though he would never, ever, under-threat-of-death-and-dismemberment say so to Clark.  He was still a jock, for God's sake.  

Somehow, the tension had dissipated.  Clark didn't know how he felt about Whitney, or even how he felt about Whitney's feelings for him.  But, he did know that he wanted Whitney as a friend at least.  

"Hey Whitney, I've got some time, how about a game now?"  Clark offered what he hoped was a friendly, but not too friendly, smile.  

"Sure."  It wasn't exactly the response he had hoped for but Whitney would take whatever he could get.  For now.


	5. Clark and Whitney play

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (5/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  NC-17 for language, slash, m/m interaction (but not quite sex)

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney and Clark finally play together

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Kinetic.

Feedback:  Would be appreciated.  Please let me know what you think.  

Notes:  The boys play, a little more realization, but no actual action … yet.

Okay, now how am I going to do this without causing Whitney some serious bodily harm?  Clark looked down at the dull orange ball in his hands.  It looked so innocuous.  But a little too much force on his part and Whitney could end up broken.  Clark tried to block out mental pictures of Whitney with a basketball-sized hole in his chest or with bloody stumps where his arms are supposed to be.  

"Clark, you wanna shoot me the ball?"  

"What?  Oh yeah, sure.  So, first one to 20 points?"  Clark passed the ball to Whitney.  He bent his knees and thrust his arms out to assume what he felt was a good defensive position.

"Don't you want to warm up first?"

"Of course."  Clark tried to cover his gaffe by bending forward from his awkward stance and reaching towards the floor with his fingertips in a light bobbing motion.  He remembered this exercise from one of his mom's aerobics videos.  At least he thought so; he didn't quite remember it being as silly as he felt doing it.  

"Uh, Clark?"

"Yeah?"  Clark looked behind himself to where Whitney was standing.  Whitney was obviously amused.  About what, he had no idea.  

"I don't think you should bounce around like that.  It contracts your muscles and you're more likely to pull something later on.  Why don't you try some slow stretching first?" A part of Whitney was appalled.  Years of playing sports and athletic training have embedded proper warm-up and conditioning procedures into him so that it's practically second nature.  The other part was aroused.  He had slyly moved behind Clark, to get a better view.  And he got it, in spades.  His lascivious nature warred with his conscience.  Help the poor boy, damnit!  Clark obviously had no idea what to do.  Ooh, but the base part of himself would rather watch Clark stretch and bend.  Ah, but if you help him, you get to touch him, his conscience urged.  Obviously, his conscience was a little base, too.

"Clark, let me show you," Whitney walked over to Clark's hunched body.

"Here, stand up, feet shoulder width apart."  Whitney demonstrated and watched as Clark copied his stance.

"Okay, now bring your right leg back and keep your feet parallel.  That's right, lean forward a bit.  Do you feel it in your calf?  No, wait."  Whitney moved closer.

Clark felt immensely stupid.  And whoa, Whitney was definitely violating his personal space.  He felt Whitney's hands grip him firmly by the waist.        

"Keep your center balanced; don't bend your upper body.  Now, push down a little.   Don't press your hands down on your thigh so much."  

Whitney continued his ministrations.  Clark was barely listening to Whitney.  He was only aware of a large hand generating heat on the small of his back and a ticklish sensation near his earlobe from the little wisps of air sent by Whitney's breathing.

"There, Clark, do you feel the burn?"  Hot breath against the side of his neck sent shivers down Clark's body.  

He turned his head towards Whitney.  Their faces were so close, he could see small greenish flecks in Whitney's otherwise perfectly blue irises.  Whitney's countenance wasn't really anything out of the ordinary.  Well, unless you count the appealingly snub tilt of his nose, the full lower lip with the slight indentation in the middle, reminiscent of a pea pod, or the distinctive cleft in his chin – sure put that all together and it's an attractive face.  Not that Clark had noticed, of course.

Okay, he could admit it.  Whitney was attractive.  No big deal.  Whitney's a good-looking guy.  And okay, he has a nice body.  Lean, but not too lean, and fit.  He could be mature and appreciate aesthetic beauty, like art.  It didn't mean anything.  

Whitney was telling him to stand up now.  He brought Clark's arms behind him, pushing inward slightly to make them parallel.  Clark couldn't remember ever being handled so intimately – no, not intimately.  It was actually pretty impersonal, but thorough.  It was as if Whitney couldn't distinguish the boundaries between his body and Clark's.  Clark could be a department store mannequin as far as Whitney was concerned.  Whitney was _that_ absorbed in showing him the rudimentary basics of warming up.  

Clark had to stop himself from revealing that warming up was a waste, for him anyway.  He had never pulled or strained anything, well except for that brief stint when he lost his strength.  But, that had been a fluke.  It wasn't as if something like that would ever happen again.  

Wonder what would break Whitney's concentration a little?  Clark pretended to lose his balance and stumbled a bit.  His shoulders were caught and righted by strong hands.  

"Hey, watch yourself there.  You have to be careful not to overextend your muscles."

Clark caught Whitney's amused, indulgent smile.  It was patronizing and annoying.  He was a bit miffed that Whitney could dismiss him so easily.  He knew he hadn't imagined Whitney's reaction to him earlier.  Whitney wanted him.  Clark had a devilish thought.  

"Thanks, Whitney, I'll remember that," Clark said with a slow smile accompanied by a look full of promise.  

Whitney's eyebrows shot up and he immediately dropped his hands from Clark's shoulders.  He took a couple of slightly shaky steps back.  

"Clark, is that okay?  I think a couple laps around the court … and then we can start?"  Whitney regained his composure.

"Sure, coach," answered Clark cheekily.  He's gratified.  That'll teach … ohmigod, he just flirted with Whitney.  He had just full-on flirted with a guy!  With Whitney!  He broke into a light jog around the perimeter of the court.  Calm down, calm down!  Okay, okay, it's okay.  It meant nothing.  Just a little bit of joking between two guys, it was nothing to get excited about.  

Clark ran another lap around the court.  It's just two guys playing basketball, nothing else.  Nothing else to see here, folks.  He slowed down and walked towards Whitney.  Whitney shot him the ball.

"Ready Clark?"  

"Yeah," Clark started dribbling the ball.  Yeah, I'm ready, here we go.

***************

A little while later, the score was 13 to 16 in Whitney's favor.    

Clark was happy with himself.  Considering he hadn't really made much effort to block Whitney for fear of causing injury, he was doing quite well.  Plus, he got to show off a couple of outside shots.  Whitney was an aggressive player, and the only shots Clark had been able to make were outside the key.

Clark currently had control of the ball.  Whitney was hovering low behind him, hands moving fast, threatening to slap the ball away.  Clark was debating which way to go when Whitney snatched the ball.  

Damn.  Clark swiftly turned and followed Whitney.  

Whitney had just launched his body off the ground.  Clark sped up a little to position himself in the spot where the momentum from Whitney's jump would place him.  He jumped straight up; their bodies collided and he blocked the shot with his hand, knocking the ball out of bounds.  Booyah!  Clark crowed mentally and looked down … to see Whitney sprawled on the floor looking dazed.  Shit!  

Clark immediately crouched down by Whitney's head, gently lifted his shoulders, and cradled it in his hand, surreptitiously checking for blood and outward physical signs of damage.  

"Uh, Whitney, hey, are you okay?"  Clark asked anxiously, guilt and worry churning in his stomach.  

Whitney felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him.  Going up against Clark had been like hitting a brick wall.  He groggily lifted his head and propped his upper body a little on his elbows, still supported by Clark.  He shook his head faintly.  No, no pain there, just a little disorientation.  Whitney took a few moments to clear his head.  He looked up and was rewarded with the sight of Clark's concerned visage –  the crinkled forehead and intense blue gaze.  Gorgeous.  Whitney had to fight the crazy impulse to bat his eyelashes.  Oops, didn't work.

"Whitney, can you hear me?" Clark had thought Whitney might be okay; but then he saw Whitney's eyes flutter strangely.  He was truly alarmed.  Oh God!  Please don't let him go into convulsions!  

"Yeah, I'm fine," Whitney mumbled, embarrassed.  Clark helped him up, but didn't let him go.  In fact, Clark pulled him closer.  Clark was scrutinizing him intensely, giving his body a once over?  Did Christmas come early this year?

Clark held onto Whitney, "scanning" him for any internal injuries.  He was relieved when he couldn't find anything.  Then he realized he had been holding Whitney quite close, for a while now.  He swallowed nervously, how to explain this?    

"Uh, hey," Clark said stupidly.  Idiot!  Is that all you can say?  How about, Nope, wasn't groping you, not checking you out either.  Except … now, he is.  There was a light sheen of sweat glistening on Whitney's body.  The tank shirt clung damply to his chest.  

Clark was aware that both of them were breathing heavily, as if they had just both run a marathon … or had some hot and heavy … whoa, don't go there.  But it was too late; Clark's mind was focused on it.  Two bodies entangled, moving in tandem to a fast, furious rhythm.  Shit!  Two male bodies.  Clark looked at Whitney, caught his burning gaze.   

"Hey," Whitney responded finally, seductively.  His eyes lowered, and he had a sexy half-smile on his lips.  Whitney experimentally took a step closer, their bodies now mere inches apart.  Clark didn't move.

Whitney ran his hands down until they were at Clark's hips, not quite touching his ass.  He gradually pulled Clark's lower body closer to his.  Their cocks touched between layers of fabric.  

Clark snapped out of his stupor and pulled away.  He wearily stepped back and plopped down onto the bleachers.  

"I think I better get home." Clark said, voice wobbly.

"Sure, let me give you a ride."  Whitney was smug, magnanimously pleased with the whole world right now.  Because Clark had been hard, too. He had felt it.  

"Let me just take a shower and then I'll drive you home."  

"Sure, whatever," Clark couldn't think.  He could barely form coherent thoughts.  Partially because everything is centered on his cock right now, but also because everything had a deeper meaning now, too – heavy, expectant, he's crossed a line somewhere.  And he didn't know if he wanted to go back.   

"Don't you think you should take one, too?  I've got soap."  Whitney offered salaciously.  

The temptation was there.  Like Eve offering the apple to Adam, or maybe the snake offering it to Eve.  Whatever it was, Clark had to have time to think, to sort himself out.  

"No, I still have chores at home, no use taking a shower, when I'd just get all sweaty again."  Clark was pleased that he was able to speak normally.  Thank God for small favors.  

"Okay, I'll just be five minutes."  Whitney spared a final glance at Clark.  

He was slumped over, head in his hands.  

Whitney grinned and sauntered towards the locker room.  I gotcha now, Clark.  I'm in the game!  Chloe, Lex Luthor and Lana, even, had better watch out.  There's a new player stepping up.  And he always played to win.  


	6. Whitney gives Clark a ride

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (6/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  NC-17 for language, slash, m/m interaction 

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney gives Clark a ride

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Kinetic.

Feedback:  Would be appreciated.  Please let me know what you think.  

Notes:  There's a shower scene.  

Clark didn't know how long he sat there on the bench, trying to work through what had just happened.  He and Whitney had … he and Whitney had … well he didn't know what exactly.  They had touched, or rather Whitney had touched him – and he had responded.  Oh man, he had definitely responded.  The fact was he was still a little, uh, responsive.  Clark looked down at his lap, yup, still there.  Think unsexy thoughts, think unsexy thoughts.  

Mutant bugs, ugh, finding Greg Arkin's mom, and Mrs. Greer.  Clark felt it working.  Finding Lana in the crypt, entombed, now that had just been creepy.  Dead people he could handle, but being buried alive?  Suffocated, man, it was too horrible.  He would prefer being shot or crushed rather than slow asphyxiation.  Probably because he couldn't imagine getting hurt physically in that way, but he did need oxygen to breathe, at least he thought he did.  Not for the first time, he realized how morbid it was to try and figure out all the possible ways he could die.

Clark glanced up at the clock on the south wall between the boys' and girls' locker rooms.  At least fifteen minutes had to have passed since Whitney went to take his shower.  What was taking him so … what if Whitney wasn't really alright?  He had fallen down pretty hard.  He'd checked Whitney over but it wasn't as if he knew what to look for exactly, he had no real medical knowledge, he wasn't a doctor.  What if Whitney was lying unconscious, hurt … Clark raced into the locker room.

He could make Whitney out in the showers from his angle behind a row of lockers based at the entrance.  Whitney's back was towards him, upper body bent forward, leaning against the tile, seemingly trying to support himself.  His left arm straight out, palm flat against the tile with his head down, the nozzle spraying water down onto the back of his neck.  He had an intense expression on his face and emitted a low groan.  

"Whitney, are you …" the words died on Clark's lips as he moved forward … and realized.  A couple of steps had given him an unobstructed view of Whitney from the side.  He saw Whitney's right hand steadily moving up and down the length of his cock.  Whitney moaned low and hot.  The sound hit Clark hard.  Clark had to close his eyes for a second.  When he opened them he was treated to the same mesmerizing sight.  

Whitney's eyes were closed.  Clark saw Whitney's body in a mist of water and steamy vapor.  Rivulets streamed down a broad-shouldered back, then around the curve of a firmly rounded ass and sleek muscular legs.  Clark wanted to run his hands down the same path as the hot water.  He wanted to grab, touch, feel, oh God.  he wanted.  His body wanted … Whitney, what was being offered to him … what was on display.  He felt his own erection pushing against his jeans.  The denim material that had been so loose and comfortable during the basketball game was tight now, confining.  

Whitney's hand moved faster and he was biting down on his lower lip.  Deep guttural sounds issued forth; they were muffled and throaty.  It was the most erotic thing Clark had ever heard.  He stood transfixed, a prisoner to his senses: the sight of Whitney pleasuring himself, the raspy moans, even the cool humidity of the locker room.  Clark couldn't move.  He saw Whitney's body tighten suddenly, and then a long trembling shudder accompanied by a half-strangled shout.  

Clark felt hot stickiness erupt against his cock and lower stomach.  Clark brought his hand down to his crotch, felt himself through the rough fabric and almost moaned.  The cotton of his briefs rubbed abrasively against his groin.  He couldn't believe it, but the evidence was there.  He had just cum in his pants … from watching Whitney.  It was unbelievable … it was incredible.    

The small corner of his brain that was still functioning urged him to flee.  He saw Whitney straighten up and turn around, letting the water run down his back.  For the briefest millisecond their eyes met, then Clark bolted out of there.  

Clark ran all the way to his loft and collapsed on the couch.  He was panting, breathing heavily.  His blood was racing and his heart was pounding.  It had nothing to do with the speed and everything to do with one wet, naked, blond and exceptionally sexy jock.  He couldn't get the images of Whitney out of his head.  Except now, he was there too, hot, naked and in the shower with him, running slick soapy hands all over that smooth athletic body.  Or pushing him against the cold tile, pressing his body against … oh God!  Whitney was still at the gym – waiting to give him a ride home!    

Clark was halfway down the lane when he realized he had to change his clothes.  A split second later, he was rummaging through the laundry basket, searching desperately for a clean pair of jeans.  He finally found one, but it was darker than the ones he had on.  He hurriedly stripped off his briefs and jeans.  He crumpled them into a ball and threw them under the bed.  He yanked on a clean pair of underwear and the fresh jeans.  They were a bit tighter than his other jeans.  He zipped down the stairs, almost colliding with his mother.

"Clark!  What on earth …" Martha couldn't ever get used to seeing Clark zooming here and there.  It used to drive her crazy when Clark was a small boy and he would seemingly zap around, magically disappearing and reappearing.  

"Sorry, Mom," Clark responded with his trademark adorable grin, and Martha, mother first and foremost, couldn't maintain her exasperation with this giant that used to be her little boy.  She reached up and tousled his hair, wistfully remembering when she used to reach down instead of up.

"Clark, you know how your father dislikes it when you do that."   

"Yeah, okay, oh, I'll be home in about fifteen minutes," Clark blurred past her.  

"Aren't you home, now?" she asked in confusion.  Clark blurred back to her.

"I'm at school right now, Whitney's going to give me a ride home.  Bye."  Clark blurred away from her again.  

Martha felt a small burst of pride.  She knew Clark couldn't have found it easy to help out his rival in Lana Lang's affections, but he overcame it, apparently enough so that they could be friendly.  Her little boy was turning into quite a man.

­*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Whitney finished dressing and made his way back out to the gym.  He felt the cool air on his head.  He hadn't completely dried his hair.  He looked around the gym searching for Clark.  Great, he had probably already left, tired of waiting around.  

Jerking off in the locker room showers had been stupid.  It wasn't something he ever thought he would have done … alone anyway.  He had been so idiotically euphoric thinking about the progress he was making with Clark, he had gotten excited.  So he had taken care of himself.  Then at the end, he could have sworn he had seen Clark, but in the next instant he had vanished.  He must of hit his head harder than he had thought when he fell down.  Or maybe it was just a mirage conjured up in a fevered, orgasmic haze.  

Shit, maybe he had scared Clark off.  

"Are you ready to go?" Whitney was startled by the sudden appearance of Clark, seemingly out of nowhere.  

"Where were you?" 

"I just stepped out for some fresh air.  Can we go?  I've got to get home and do my chores." 

"Sure.  Come on."  Whitney led Clark out behind the gym to where his F-150 was parked.  He took a moment to appreciate the sturdy beauty of his truck. 

"Nice truck.  It's new, right?"  Clark smiled as Whitney, and there was no other way to put it, lovingly caressed the hood of his truck.  Whitney beamed with pride.

"Yeah, I just got her a month ago.  Get in."  Whitney stashed his gym bag carefully in the back while Clark slid into the passenger seat.  He got in also, adjusted his own seatbelt and turned the ignition.  The smooth purring of the engine always relaxed him.  

"So what do you think?  Basketball tryouts are in a week, you could sign up, Clark."  

"I don't think my parents will let me.  They're kind of overprotective."  High school sports were just not an option for him.  Today's knockdown with Whitney just reminded him of that fact.

Clark heard Whitney mutter something under his breath.

"What did you say?" Clark asked, his curiosity piqued.

"I said, I forgot that you were their angel baby."  Clark laughed.  He turned towards Whitney, waiting for an explanation.

"It was just something I overheard from one of my mom's garden club meetings.  You know how everyone talks in this town."  They were pulling out of the parking lot and headed towards Main Street.  Whitney continued speaking.

"They were curious about where you came from, small children just don't pop up out of nowhere, you know.  I think your mom told Mrs. Willard one time that the angels had brought you down from heaven, or something like that.  So, then, they started calling you that.  And of course, it doesn't hurt that you're the perfect son, so helpful, polite, kind to small children and animals, that kind of stuff. "  Whitney gave him a rueful look, then turned his attention back to the road.  

"What else do they say?" there was edge to Clark's question.  Curiosity and talk about him never brought any good, there was always a threat to him, his parents, their "normal" life.  It made him anxious and uneasy.  

Whitney was surprised at Clark's hostility and tried to soothe his ire.  

"People just wonder, Clark.  You kind of appeared out of nowhere.  Your parents found you in a cornfield.  They're going to speculate.  Mrs. Kopek thinks your real parents were part of some kind of covert government research operation and were killed when the whole thing blew up.  She thinks that the meteors were just fragments of some type of secret NASA spy satellite and that the whole town was infected by some weird chemical radiation that mutated almost everybody in Smallville as a result."  Whitney glanced over at Clark, thinking to find him amused at the outlandish and imaginative outpourings of the town's ex-librarian.  Clark was not amused, in fact he was visibly upset.  

Shit!  Whitney couldn't believe he'd been so insensitive as to mention Clark's biological parents and joke about their presumed death.  He felt a sinking sensation in his gut.

"Oh, man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean …" Whitney trailed off miserably.  

"It's okay, Whitney.  People talk, and the freakish Kent kid is just another topic of conversation to bring up occasionally, I get it."  Whitney flinched at the sound of Clark's bitter reply.

"It's not that.  It's just, you know, the day of the meteor crash just lingers in everybody's mind.  So many things happened.  I don't know.  It's the one day that nobody in this town will ever forget.  Everybody remembers it and all the events associated with it, you just happen to be one of them, I guess."  Whitney couldn't tell if he had made the situation better or worse with his lame attempt at an explanation.

"So what do you remember then?  What are the events that you'll never forget?"  Clark couldn't conceal the resentment clearly present in his voice.  Would someone always have to throw the meteor shower in his face?  Wouldn't he ever get a reprieve from the unrelenting guilt that clawed at him?

Whitney took a moment before speaking.  He wondered if he should tell the truth or make fake sympathy noises, the same kind of bullshit spiel about hope and togetherness helping people overcome tragic events that everyone else always trotted out.  What the hell, Clark already knew most of his deep dark secrets anyway.  

"It was actually one of the best days of my life."  Whitney paused there and looked over at Clark to see his reaction.  Clark merely looked startled, but not angered or disgusted. 

"I guess I had just gotten out of kindergarten class.  My mom dropped me off at the store.  My dad was supposed to be watching me, but he was too busy running around the store.  I was trying to follow him, but he moved so fast, I couldn't keep up.  I remember thinking that he was so tall, that I could never be as tall as him, that he would grow along with me, and that I'd always be so much smaller than him.  Do you remember stupid things like that?"

"Yeah, but I don't think it's stupid.  My dad used to play airplane with me.  He'd lie down on the floor and hoist me up in the air with his legs and I'd pretend to be a plane and fly.  That was the best."  Clark smiled at Whitney and felt irrationally joyful when the smile was returned. 

They were on the road heading out of the town's center and towards the outlying farms already.  They fell into a companionable silence, until Clark realized he hadn't heard the rest of Whitney's story.

"Um, so what happened?"  He really did want to know.  He wanted to hear about something good that had happened that day.  Something to tip the scales a bit so that he didn't have to feel like he had ruined yet another person's life just by his very existence upon the Earth. 

"Oh, yeah, well, I ended up knocking down a mannequin and I got yelled at and sent up to my dad's office.  It looks over the south end of Main Street.  I had a good view of the parade.  And I saw them - these massive balls of fire shooting through the sky.  I thought they were great, like fireworks.  I was too stupid to know better, I just thought it was cool, like in the movies or something."  Whitney shook his head like an old man recounting his foolish, youthful indiscretions.  His voice took on a faraway reflective quality.    

"My dad came running through the door of the office.  I was still hanging out the window looking at the meteors.  I turned around and … he had the look on his face, I'd never seen it before.  He looked scared – lost.  He grabbed me and held me so tight I could barely breathe.  He kept whispering 'Thank God, Thank God …' I don't remember much after that."  Whitney stopped the truck and faced Clark squarely.

"My dad's hugged me three times in my entire life:  the day my grandmother died, the day I learned I got the scholarship to Kansas State and the day of the meteor shower."  

Clark was silent.  He was constantly at a loss when it came to Whitney's extraordinary behavior towards him.  He didn't know why he always pushed for these revelations.  Or why Whitney always told him these things.  Whitney must really feel a strong connection with him.  Clark couldn't imagine being that open to someone.  Hiding was second nature to him.  At that moment he truly felt envious of Whitney.

"We're here."  Whitney gestured at the Kent farm.  Clark got out of the truck still mulling over the events of the day, trying to work out the new dynamic in his relationship to Whitney.  

"Bye, Clark," Whitney started the motor again.

Clark started walking to the house, stopped, and turned back to the truck.  He looked at his former nemesis and cleared his throat.  

"Hey, Whitney, thanks for the ride … I'll see you around … sometime."  Clark knew how it sounded and he didn't care.  He wanted to, at the very least, get to know Whitney better, to explore this intriguing new development and its myriad possibilities. 

Whitney smiled; his eyes seemed to light up.  Clark felt that smile all the way down to his toes.  He grinned back and watched as Whitney drove back towards town.   


	7. Grand Opening of the Talon Part 1

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (7/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  NC-17 for language, slash, m/m interaction 

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Two guys and a back alleyway.

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Zero.

Feedback:  Would be appreciated.  Please let me know what you think.  

Notes:  This takes place at the end of Zero, the Grand Opening of the Talon.  

Whitney tried to stifle a yawn as he nodded and pretended to listen to Felice talking about her last trip to Metropolis.  Lana was there, sparing a moment to take a breather from all the hurried last minute details of the Talon's Grand Opening.  That was easy considering that Felice was doing all the talking.  He watched as Lana pretended to have an interest on Felice's news that a branch of Sephora was finally going to be opened in uptown Metropolis.  He realized that Lana had the same expression on her face when he talked to her about sports.  Then he saw her face light up in real pleasure; he didn't have to look to know that Clark Kent had arrived.  But he did anyway.

His expression probably mirrored Lana's.  He couldn't help it.  Clark looked incredible.  The sports jacket and button down shirt should have looked hokey, but it just made the case for business casual.  His own ensemble matched Clark's but he knew he didn't look half as good in it as Clark.  He smiled at Clark and received a vibrant one in return.  He ruthlessly ignored the butterflies in his stomach and the squeezing sensation around his heart.    

He begrudgingly turned his attention back to Felice as Lana made her way over to Clark.  He continued to watch them out of the corner of his eye.  He made note of their tentative posturing.  Lana was nervously twirling the yellow rose he had given her earlier that evening.  Clark handed her a brightly wrapped present.  Whitney sighed mentally, whatever was in that package, he knew it would be perfect and Lana would love it.  Clark just seemed to have that knack.  Whitney had also gotten Lana a gift for the grand opening.  It was a snazzy palm pilot, something he thought she could use to balance her presently hectic schedule of work, school, writing for the paper and her various community service projects.  It was something useful and practical and thoughtful, damn it.  She had thanked him dutifully with a smile.  Okay, not dutifully, she did seem to really appreciate it.  It was very hard for Lana not to be genuine.  But Clark's gift, it looked like some sort of picture, made her smile in unfeigned delight.  And she was gripping it as if she would hug it into herself.  Whitney was envious and jealous all at the same time, and the emotions were all mixed up because they were directed at two people.

He was envious of Clark, because he wanted to be the good boyfriend.  The one that effortlessly made the perfect gesture, the one that made her happy.  But he can't make it natural.  It's an effort for him; he has to work at it … a lot.  People always say that you have to work at a relationship for it to be successful.  He does.  He observes the little things.  He listens to her.  He knows her favorite authors and music, her favorite color (not pink, actually emerald green, though who could have guessed), that she hates strawberries, she's scared of heights, she would rather take care of horses than ride them, she doesn't wear perfume and slathers on lotion instead (always fruit or vanilla essences never flowers), she wants to be a math major, she cries watching those Disney kids sports movies, that and hundreds of other little things.  So how come Clark, who conceivably didn't know all these things because he only barely got up the nerve to speak to her this year, can make her smile as if he's laid out the whole world in front of her?  Why is he her fucking Prince Charming?  Her romantic ideal?

Because he actually wants her, you hypocrite, jeered a voice in his head.  

But that's not true, not totally.  He wants me too, at least a little, the thought tinged slightly with desperation.  And that's where the jealously comes in.  How perverse is it to be jealous of your own girlfriend?  He wanted some of those grand gestures from Clark, to know that Clark would undertake something to make him happy, to try and bring a smile to his face not Lana's.  He watched them break apart, but Lana had to stop and look back at him; say some final words before she left.  And who can blame her?  He wouldn't want to leave Clark either.           

Then he saw Lex Luthor smoothly take Lana's place by Clark.  Lex Luthor had that self-assured aura about him, that worldly confidence that was found only in the obscenely rich or well connected.  It's weird but Lex Luthor reminded him of Mr. Graham's history lesson three weeks ago.  It was all about Manifest Destiny.  How in the 1800s, the United States used the belief that it had a God given right to take over and control all of North America.  It came to him during Mr. Graham's explanation that Lex Luthor was the personification of that doctrine.  He had that arrogant assumption that all would be his; everything was his for the taking.  

It basically boiled down to the fact that Lex Luthor got whatever he wanted.  And he wanted Clark Kent.  Those are the two things he absolutely knew about the scion of the local billionaire.  He was kidding himself; there was no chance with Clark as long as that man was around.  It hadn't helped to hear Lana recount how Clark had sort of rescued Lex Luthor from the freak that had presumably left him the severed hand.  Trust Lex Luthor to be the inspiration for dismembering body parts.  Of course, the truly notable tidbit had been how Clark had been so worried, being unable to reach Lex at home, the office and his personal line, that he had rushed around town trying to locate him.  There was something there between them, even if neither of them had acknowledged it yet.  God, just watching them made him sick.  Lex's sly advances, Clark's shy, pseudo-retreat accompanied by soulful glances.  He must be a masochist.  And what's really depressing is that his little encounter a couple of weeks ago with Clark, opening him up to the possibility of wanting another guy, may have just been the impetus to shove him right into Lex Luthor's waiting arms. 

Whitney turned his attention back to Felice and realized she was gone.  Great, I was so distracted I didn't even notice her leave.  And she probably saw me watching Clark, wonderful.  The best he could hope for was rumors flying around that he was jealous and insecure about Lana, the worst, being the truth, that he was jealous and desperate over Clark.  

Whitney made his way to the back of the room and went through the kitchen to go outside.  The back entrance opened to the alley between the Talon and the flower shop.  He let the cool night air waft over him.  He wanted to go away, far away from his unrelenting responsibilities, away from the burden of hiding who he truly was and away from this tortuous wanting of things he couldn't have.  He wanted escape from Smallville and all it represented: small town, small dreams, small minds.  Whitney leaned with his back against the wall debating whether or not to leave.  Lana would kill him.  No, she wouldn't do that, but she would be disappointed and grace him with that sad smile and those sympathetic eyes that made killing preferable.

He walked back to the door, determined to make it through the rest of the night thoroughly enjoying himself and basking in his girlfriend's success.  He opened the door to reveal Clark Kent holding trash bags in his right hand.  

Clark smiled.

"Hi, Whitney."

Whitney's heart leapt up to his throat.  Shit.  He hoped he didn't have his dad's weak heart, because being around Clark could give him heart failure.

"Hi, Clark, uh, what are you doing out here?"  

Clark gave him an obvious look and held up the dark green trash bags.  Could you get any lamer, Fordman?  

"Want some help?"  Whitney tried to recover from his embarrassment.  

"I think I can handle the arduous five foot trek to the trash can, but thanks for the offer," amusement written clearly upon Clark's face.  He turned and made his way to the dumpster.  

Whitney berated himself for being an idiot and dejectedly moved to go inside.  He felt a strong, warm hand on his shoulder.

"Whitney, don't go in yet.  Will you stay out here a little while with me?  Keep me company?"  

"Sure" came out of Whitney's mouth normally enough.  But inside, somewhere, there was the jubilation of a thirteen-year-old girl screaming and jumping up and down like she was front row center at an N'Sync concert.  

"You look a little different, did you …" Clark gestured at him.

"Hm … oh yeah, I got a haircut."  Whitney ran his hand through his hair.

"It looks good."  

"Thanks," the thirteen-year-old girl was twirling cartwheels, "my hair kept getting in my eyes … and my mom kept bugging me about it.  Said she'd like to see my face."

"I don't blame her," Clark replied in a low, sexy whisper.  Okay, the thirteen-year-old girl has just keeled over.  Whew, was it getting hot out here?

Clark sidled over and turned his body slightly so that he effectively had Whitney trapped with his back against the wall.  

"You look pretty good tonight, Whitney.  I saw you when I came in."  Clark was gazing at him intently.  

"I saw you, too.  I was watching you."  Whitney's heart was beating a thunderous tattoo, the rhythm echoed in his ears.  He was mesmerized by Clark's mouth, watching those heavenly lips as they moved to form different sounds.  He saw them part again and heard a soft chuckle.

"I know.  I was watching you watching me.  Do you know Felice almost threw her drink in your face?"  Clark's amusement was evident.  

"Really?"  Whitney didn't give a damn because Clark moved in just a little bit closer and placed his right hand on Whitney's stomach.

"Yeah, you're lucky she spotted Mark Weaver or you could have ended the evening as one very wet quarterback."  

"Really?"  Clark's hand was slowly rubbing his lower abdomen.  

Clark leaned in further until their lips were mere inches apart.

"You still could," Clark murmured.  Whitney couldn't stand it any more.  He closed the distance between them, moving slowly enough so that Clark could stop if him if he wanted.  He didn't.  

Elation swept through his entire body as his mouth made contact with Clark's soft, amazingly soft, lips.  Clark opened his mouth a little, inviting Whitney's tongue inside.  His tongue made teasing forays into the hot, wet cavern.  Clark tasted rich and sweet.  Darts of pleasure shot out to different parts of his body.  His lips moved steadily, essentially massaging Clark's mouth.  Someone moaned, he didn't know who; Clark sucked on his tongue gently, drawing him in deeper.  His hands moved down to Clark's ass and kneaded the firm flesh.  Clark sucked him harder.  Minutes passed as they seemed to devour each other, melding their mouths and bodies together.  

Finally, Whitney had to break away.  He gasped in gulps of air.  He was vaguely mortified at how much he was panting.  Clark just looked at him steadily, not out of breath at all.  He had that sleepy knowing look and sexy, swollen lips.  His gaze was predatory.  Whitney leaned back against the wall, partially for support.

"Fuck," Whitney whispered, dazed and a little awestruck.

Clark grinned, "I thought you'd never ask."

Jesus, where has this Clark been?  

He was painfully hard, and judging by the long hot appendage pressed against his hip, Clark was too.  

Clark moved his hand down between their bodies and unbuttoned Whitney's fly.  He stroked Whitney's cock through the fabric of his boxers.  It twitched and leapt at the contact.  His breathing grew ragged as Clark's hand worked magic.  His hips moved, gradually matching the rhythm.  His eyes closed at the rapturous pleasure.  

"Open your eyes," Clark demanded.  Whitney couldn't muster up the strength to comply, bliss had inundated his senses.  The stroking stopped.  Whitney's eyes shot open.  He looked upon the countenance of a very forceful, disgruntled and mercilessly sexy angel.

"Keep them open."  Clark rubbed his thumb along the underside of his cock firmly.  Whitney bit his lip to keep from moaning out loud.  He was mindless, lost in pure sensation.  He felt the pressure building in his balls as Clark worked him faster.  He couldn't take it anymore and finally spewed his essence all over Clark's hand.   Whitney sagged against the wall and laid his head down on Clark's shoulder, spent and breathless.  

He finally regained his senses and looked balefully at the person who had just given him the best climax he had ever had.

"Okay, who are you, and what have you done to the real Clark Kent?" 

Blinding flash of very white teeth and a semi-bashful duck of the head.  Clark cleared his throat and bit his lip.  

"I've been dreaming about you, about this – for weeks … ever since, you know," Whitney could have sworn he saw the blush rising on Clark's face, even though it was too dark to tell.

"And that's the reason that, you, uh," Whitney faltered, he couldn't process, couldn't describe what had just happened with mere words.  Whitney felt incredibly humbled and happy.  He looked into Clark's eyes.  He saw insecurity and embarrassment where there had been only confidence and desire before.  He tried to dispel the doubt in the only way he could.

He leaned in and kissed Clark lightly on the mouth.  He murmured against Clark's lips.

"You are so hot," the husky whisper was all he could manage.  

Clark kissed him back.  Whitney caught Clark's plump lower lip gently with his teeth and pulled ever so slightly.  He let go when he heard Clark whimper.  He pulled back and smiled.

"So you've been dreaming about me?"  All was right with the world.

"You've ruined a lot of sheets in the Kent household lately."  Clark teased.

"Well we can't have that now, can we?"

Whitney slid down; his knees touched the pavement.  His gaze was level with Clark's bulging crotch.  He braced his hands on either side of Clark's hips.  He nuzzled Clark's erection.  Whitney angled his head and opened his mouth.  He compressed his lips firmly along the hard phallus outlined by dark blue slacks.  There was a hitch in Clark's breathing as Whitney glided his lips slowly up and down.  He looked up and enjoyed the gorgeous sight of a thoroughly turned on and hot farm boy.  

Whitney took hold of Clark firmly.  He ran his hand down the zipper and freed the hardest, most tempting cock he had ever seen.  It was hot and huge.  It throbbed with life in his hand.  

"So tell me about your dreams, Clark?"  

"This is turning out to be pretty close."  Clark rasped out.

"Then I'm gonna to make all your dreams come true," Whitney smiled to himself.  This was going to be one hell of an enjoyable night.


	8. Grand Opening of the Talon Part 2

Title:  Basketball Tuesdays (8/?)

Author:  elgatoneun

Rating:  NC-17 for language, slash, m/m interaction 

Pairing:  Clark/Whitney

Summary:  Whitney and Clark and Lex, oh my!

Disclaimer:  These characters do not belong to me, at all.

Spoilers:  Everything up to and including Zero.

Feedback:  Would be appreciated.  Please let me know what you think.  

Notes:  You know Lex had to be in this series somewhere, right?  This takes place at the end of Zero, the Grand Opening of the Talon (part two).  

Whitney was on his knees; ready to gratify every single wet dream he had ever had about Clark Kent.  Whitney looked up at Clark.  His eyes were half-closed.  He was biting his lower lip … in anticipation perhaps?  Whitney squeezed Clark's dick with his hand.  Clark gasped.  Whitney flickered the tip of his tongue rapidly back and forth on the underside of Clark's phallus, right at the ridge.  His cock swelled just a little bit more.  Whitney smiled, pleased at the fruits of his labor.

Suddenly, Clark gripped his shoulders … hard.

"Someone's coming." 

That's right, many, many times if Whitney had anything to say about it.  He leaned his head forward.  

Whitney suddenly felt his environment shift lightening fast.  He was dizzy and disoriented.  His perspective had changed so abruptly that he felt slightly nauseous.  He took stock of his surroundings.  He was no longer kneeling on the ground – but upright.  One moment he had been contemplating a mouthful of Clark and now – his pants were suddenly zipped, his arms were at his sides and he had been hauled up to a standing position against the wall.  What the hell?

The door opened casually.  Since Whitney's head was lowered, he saw the expensive Italian leather shoes first.  Lex Luthor had arrived on the scene.  He immediately looked at Clark to see his reaction.  Clark was standing at least three feet away from him, slightly hunched over with his hands in his pockets.  Whitney was disappointed.  That was definitely not the posture or expression he imagined on Clark after their little session, even if they had been interrupted precipitously.  He looked at the intruder and saw him scrutinizing Clark closely.  Lex also looked at him appraisingly, only the slightest lift of his eyebrows indicated his surprise at Whitney's presence.

"Hi Lex."  Clark sounded breathless and guilty.  

"Clark, I believe the lovely Misses Lang and Sullivan are looking for the two of you."  Lex kept looking at the two of them, his eyes slowly running up and down each of them.  Whitney couldn't process his jumbled thoughts.  He was still trying to recall how everything had changed so quickly.      

Clark shuffled past him to the door.  

"I better go see Chloe."  He looked apologetically over at Whitney.  

"Sure.  Tell Lana I'll be in soon."  Clark went back inside, but not before he cast a lingering look at him … and Lex?  Fuck.  

Whitney was uncomfortably aware of the other man.  He could imagine the smile and knowing glance.  Lex probably knew exactly what was going on.

"You and Clark seem to have come to an understanding in your relationship," Lex said, his tone rife with innuendo.  But his face was composed, bland even.  Whitney's dad had told him once to always listen to a person's voice.  That's what really guided you to their true feelings.  A person's face, he said, was a mask deployed by the mind, but the voice was an instrument of the soul.

Lex's tone of voice left no doubt.  He knew everything about Clark and Whitney.  

"Yeah, we're okay now."  That came out a little too defensively.  He was annoyed when he saw Lex Luthor's distinctive smirk.  The one he gave out to lesser mortals who amused him.

Lex walked to the railing of the stair steps.  He turned and leaned back against them casually, hands in his pockets.  It was a very GQ pose.  

"I can see that you two are very okay."  Lex stressed the last word, drawing it out.  

"Just how okay are you?"  Lex queried, his eyes raking Whitney from top to bottom, lingering in a few places that made heat flare through Whitney's body.  

"We're sort of friends, I guess," was the resentful reply.

"Sort of friends?  Well, I had some sort of friends like that too.  They're nice to have around when you're feeling … friendly."  

Whitney scowled, uneasy at being pinned down by Lex's insinuation, even if it was true.  Resentment surged through him; he hated Lex Luthor's elegant condescension.  He was still trying to pinpoint his own feelings, feelings he might have clarified if he hadn't been so rudely interrupted.  He glared at the older man and received a disdainful glance of dislike tempered with jealousy.  

Jealousy was something he recognized instantly, being on such good terms with it himself.  It was something he understood very well, unfortunately.

"Clark's a friendly guy."  Whitney threw those words out like a challenge.  He was rewarded with a slight downturn of Lex's lips.

"Clark is warm and trusting.  He chooses his friends carefully but not always wisely.  You and I are both examples of that."  The words were accompanied by a rueful but charming smile.  And Lex was very charming, charismatic as it were.  Whitney sometimes forgot about that.  But Whitney could be too, at least when it came to Clark.

"I don't know, I think I could be a very good friend to Clark.  He's been so good to me, already.  I just want to … reciprocate."  Whitney taunted Lex, he wasn't really good at sophisticated verbal sparring but he would not back down in front of Lex Luthor, especially when it had to do with Clark.  

"I see.  I hope Clark doesn't regret his choice then.  He's very idealistic when it comes to those closest to him.  He can be disappointed rather easily."  Lex seemed almost thoughtful, as if he were providing a service, doling out advice and insight to the lovelorn.  Whitney didn't appreciate it.  Disappointing people seemed to be a specialty of his lately.  He didn't need it to be so blatantly pointed out to him.  He wasn't the only less than stellar example of humanity that gravitated towards Clark Kent.

"Know that for a fact, do you?  I guess it's hard when you let your friends down."  

"It's easier than you think, especially with Clark.  He has certain … expectations.  They can be hard to live up to."  Lex shrugged and continued.

"Clark is naïve and innocent.  He thinks everyone is basically good and should be given a chance.  You and I know better."  Lex leaned in closer to Whitney.

Whitney didn't speak.  He didn't think it was necessary and wouldn't know what to say if it had been.

"Clark wants perfection, because he is perfection.  And he will be disillusioned when he doesn't get it – when it isn't.  That's why the first one … it won't work.  It can't."  Lex was close to him.  His voice was low but full of conviction.  Whitney didn't understand it exactly, but he got the gist.  It had been fairly inarticulate considering Lex's much lauded reputation as a smooth operator.  But it was powerful anyway, because it held a ring of truth.    

Whitney hated Lex Luthor then, despised him at that moment.  Lex seemed to be compassionate, almost kind.  But it was cruel and played on his insecurities only too well.  

He hated the way Lex seemed to have it all figured out.  That his … relationship with Clark seemed destined for heartache.  He hated mostly because he could see it like that too.  Clark was too perfect for words.  And it made sense; Clark probably had more schoolgirl fantasies about the perfect partner than Lana.  Shit.  Lana.  She was perfection, too.  Clark and Lana.  The two most fucking perfect people he knew.  

He knew Lex was right on that score.  Clark put Lana up on a pedestal, worshipped at her altar like a supplicant.  And she was starting to look at Clark as if her were her personal savior, always there to cherish and protect her.  But that kind of reverence built barriers, it didn't encourage closeness.  They were blind to each other's faults; as close to perfection as they were, they were still human and fallible.  Maybe Clark did expect too much, he was secretive and sometimes unbelievably self-righteous.  Lana was too self-absorbed, mired in her own unfortunate history wearing it like veil.  She was the tragic princess, shielding herself from lowly commoners.  Those two, yes, those two together could not have a good relationship, not like that.

But he was different, far from ideal.  He had too many flaws to count.  He was impulsive and hot tempered.  He didn't care if Clark wanted too much, because there they were equal.  Whitney always wanted too much, he was too passionate, too demanding.  And when Whitney wanted something, he always went for it.  He didn't care if heartache was imminent, maybe it wasn't.  It didn't matter.         

Whitney looked at Lex.  He saw sincerity.  He didn't trust it.  Whether or not Lex was right, or was manipulating him, warning him, whatever.

"I don't care.  It doesn't matter, because I know it'll be worth it."  Whitney straightened.  He turned to leave.

"I'm sure it will" Lex said the words softly as Whitney opened the door.  Whitney hesitated slightly, the only indication that he'd heard those last words.  

The warmth inside the Talon hit him like a furnace after having been outside so long.  There were people crowded around strategically placed tables, smaller couples here and there.  The atmosphere was relaxing and inviting.  He spotted Lana a moment before she swooped down on him.

"Whitney, where have you been?  I looked all over for you."  Lana grabbed his arm and lead him over to the refreshment tables.  

"I was outside talking to Lex Luthor."  Lana blinked up at him prettily.  She was clearly surprised.

"About what?"

"About relationships."  

"Do I want to know?"  Lana smiled.

"What do you want to know?"  They were interrupted by a perky and inquisitive voice.  Chloe Sullivan demanded the information with a grin.  

"Nice hair, by the way."  Chloe put in before either of them had a chance to reply, gesturing to Whitney.  

"Uh, thanks, you too."  Chloe's eyes penetrated him with a suspicious glare.  Daring him to mock her.  

Whitney floundered.  "It's, uh, fluffy."  Chloe's eyes narrowed further.  

Lana burst out laughing.  Chloe turned to Lana, ignoring Whitney, as he didn't warrant her attention.

"So, what do you want to know?"  She repeated.

Whitney slunk off while he had the chance.  He didn't hear Lana's answer but heard both of the girls giggle in response.   

He made a circuitous path to Clark's group, stopping along the way to engage in a little conversation here and there.  He grabbed some cheese puffs and a drink along the way.  He made it just in time to overhear the heated debate on the Crows chances at the district championships.

"We're going to nail it this year."  This was Pete's loyal opinion.  

"I don't know.  Granville is having a kick ass year."  Pete looked at Brent as if he'd blasphemed.  

"Are you kidding?  Granville's center runs like my grandmother," Mark Weaver contributed that piece of wisdom.  Pete gave him a nod of approval.  

Whitney caught Clark's gaze over the group.  Clark gave him a tiny smile.  

"Well, it's not like Randall's any better, shit, if Fordman hadn't quit this …" Brent broke off, a guilty expression on his face as he noticed Whitney hovering at the edge of the group.

There was an awkward silence.  Clark jumped up and grabbed his arm.

"Whitney, there's something I wanted to show you … over there."  Whitney was dragged off.  Damn, Clark was stronger than he looked.  

Clark pulled towards the back of the room, near the staircase to the balcony.  

"It's okay, Clark.  You didn't have to pull me away."

"I wanted to show you something ... the staircase."

"You wanted to show me the staircase?"  Clark looked at him sheepishly.

"Uh, yeah, see how wide it is.  It's unusually wide."  Whitney felt like laughing, Clark was just … was just so bad at this.  Not surprisingly, Clark blushed.

"So, what were you doing outside for so long?"  

"I was talking to your friend Lex."  Whitney glanced at Clark to garner his reaction.  He saw mild curiosity.  Clark sat down on one of the steps.  Whitney followed.  Clark was wrong; the stairway was not wide at all.  Their knees touched, neither pulled away.  Both were recalled to what they had been doing only a half hour ago.

Whitney smiled and looked deep into Clark's eyes.  The rest of the room vanished.  Only the two of them existed.

"We talked about perfection."      


End file.
